


let morning wash it all away

by lilabut



Series: the dirt in which our roots may grow [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Drabble Sequence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Missing Scene, Spoilers, it's a bit long for that, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 02:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6035215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilabut/pseuds/lilabut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their reunion is quiet, blood-soaked, peaceful. <i>A missing moment between Carol and Daryl towards the end of 6x09.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. dawn

He smiles at her from across the room when she closes the infirmary's door quietly behind her.

 

Glenn nods as she walks past him, putting together a sparse tray of food which, Carol assumes, is intended for Maggie (sitting on a bed in the corner, pale and catatonic, all the life sucked from her eyes).

 

Daryl follows her steps carefully, and she is convinced he must notice the hunch of her shoulders or the twist in her steps. They have only seen each other briefly, in passing, and there has been no time to explain, to talk, to breathe.

 

 _Are you okay?_ she asks, keeping her voice down. The room resembles a church, where even the drop of a pen would echo as loudly as the firing of a gun. At least, that is what she recalls from another lifetime ago. Her feet ache when she comes to a halt next to where he sits on the table, legs dangling in the air.

 

Daryl nods, the smile from just a second ago wiped away (it is always a fleeting sight, the tug of a smile on his face). It is enough to reassure her, though, and soothe the storm that has been brewing inside of her all this time. _Ain't bit or anythin'._

 

He shrugs his shoulder awkwardly, and it takes Carol a second to understand what he means by it. When she looks down, her eyes fall upon his left wing, cut and weeping blood. The sight is unsettling, inherently wrong, and despite the mask she has just shed today, she longs for a needle to stitch the feathers back together. _Just ran into some trouble on the road._

 

Her lips vibrate in a confirming murmur, eyes tracing down his mangled arm and to his blood coated hands. _Sasha mentioned something._

 

Swallowing, Carol embraces the silence that follows. Her eyes scan the room and the carnage of which it speaks, until her gaze falls on the open door by the kitchen where Michonne cradles Judith tightly against her chest. What lies behind those walls causes an icy shiver to run down Carol's spine, the pain that follows familiar and foreign all the same.

 

 _He's a tough kid._ Daryl sounds tired, weary. But the words are soaked in determination, and Carol finds it mirrored in his eyes when she looks up. _He'll make it._

 

Despite all the determination, there is little hope in Daryl’s words. It has been a long time since she has seen hope in his eyes, or felt it in his touch. Those days, cloaked in humid heat, adorned with white flowers and held together by iron bars, have been burned away a long time ago (into ashes, no matter what he said once).

 

 _Okay, your turn._ Denise puts an end to the silent conversation, stepping up behind the table to inspect what little of the wound she can see. _Take that off for me._ The words are rushed, spoken with little care as she begins to grab bandages and scissors from a table nearby.

 

The effect they have is instant, the impact dawning as panic in Daryl's eyes. A panic Carol instantly recognizes, that she has seen there before.

 

Quickly, Carol reaches for his hand. The blood on her own is smeared with that on his, slippery and disgustingly warm. Despite it all, she gives it a tight squeeze, her eyes not straying from his.

 

(never have they spoken about what he hides beneath the vest that is an armor more than anything else. nor have they ever lost a word about the fact that she _knows_ , about what she has seen that night on the farm, exposed by a sheet that was white and pristine and not enough to cover the cruelty of his childhood.)

 

When he does move to shrug awkwardly out of the vest and tattered shirt, Daryl's eyes are locked on their hands, his fingers slipping between her own.

 

Denise works quietly, focused, cleaning the wound with careful thoroughness. She makes no mention of the hands that have formed a knot on her table, nor the maze of scars that span across Daryl’s back. _It's not too deep, but it will need stitches_ , she explains after the wound is clean, dropping filthy cotton into a bowl.

 

Daryl is still staring down at their joint hands, Carol's thumb tracing back and forth across the skin between his thumb and index finger in a soothing rhythm. His eyes are hazy, almost mesmerized, Denise's word nothing but a faint echo to him.

 

Not hesitating, Carol breaches the distance between them, her lips pressing lightly against his rough cheek. _I'll wait outside_ , she whispers, not caring that Denise can hear, or that the others can see.

 

The only thing that matters in this moment is that she can feel the heat of Daryl's blush beneath her lips, and that his hand holds on to hers for just a moment too long when she steps away to make her way out onto the porch where the others wait in solemn silence.

 


	2. dusk

A familiar grunt is the only response that her gentle knock elicits. Despite everything that has happened and all the weight that still rests on her shoulders, even through the heavy curtain of fatigue, Carol can not fight the smile that the rough sound puts on her lips.

 

The door opens smoothly, the hinges oiled, brand-new. Because of it, she makes an additional effort to close it behind her just as quietly, the thud of the white wood falling into place filling the silent room.

 

Daryl is perched on the edge of his bed, hair wet and lazily pushed out of his face. He's barefoot, the sweatpants looking oddly out of place on him, and drops of water soak steadily into the white shirt he has put on, falling from long strands of hair.

  
  
_You showered._ Carol remains at her post by the door, leaning against the frame for support. After spending all day dragging rotten corpses outside of Alexandria’s tormented walls, her legs are feeling numb, and her back aches to be given at least a moment of rest.

  
_Was filthy_ , Daryl replies, shrugging his shoulders. He eyes her with concern, dragging his gaze from her boots up along the fresh clothes she has put on, ending on the curls of her hair, spiked from her own shower, her cheeks flushed red.

  
Carol grins, a smug gesture that her muscles barely remember. When did they last have a chance to be like this? Just the two of them, fumbling and tiptoeing along an unspoken line that neither of them seems to be willing or able to cross. _You always are._

 

He gives her a look that is a mere shadow of what it once was, and in her mind, one words echoes that he does not utter now. _Stop._

 

In its absence, Carol crosses the distance, her boots thudding against the carpet, until she slowly sinks down onto the bed next to him, palms pressing into the duvet. The mattress is soft and inviting, the smell of soap filling the air and finally covering the stench of death.

  
_Were you going to change that yourself?_ she asks, spotting a brand new bandage and some tape by the fluffed up cushion. Daryl only shrugs, again, not looking at her anymore. It is frustrating to have this distance between them, a wall that has only been raised recently, and even through the cracks, Carol has a hard time reaching him these days.

  
_You could have asked_ , she states, a little annoyed at his stubbornness, craning her neck to see the soaked bandage through the white shirt. _Come on._ He looks at her briefly as she urges him, pointing at his shirt. For a moment, he hesitates, even as she grabs the supplies with determination, fingers curling around gauze and tape.

 

Waiting patiently, Carol takes note of everything. His calm breathing, the way his eyes can not seem to focus on anything for too long, roaming without purpose. Eventually, he reaches behind himself to grab the collar of his shirt, pulling it swiftly over his head. Quietly, it lands on the floor by their feet.

 

It is an act of trust larger than either of them are ready to admit. Before he twists away to turn his back towards her, Carol offers Daryl a reassuring smile.

 

She works swiftly then, knowing that Daryl must feel exposed, and not wanting to leave him like this, unprotected and raw, for too long. Her fingers move along the angry stitches and red skin, replacing the ruined bandage and taping the new one into place with practiced ease. Her eyes remain focused on the task at hand, not straying towards the demons that reside over the carnage below.

 

Outside, the sun is beginning to set, light steadily decreasing, become a luxury. With it, a feeling akin to laziness begins to crawl along her veins, and when she secures the last edge of the clean bandage, Carol finds herself unwilling to move away.

 

In this moment, she feels closer to Daryl than she has in a long time. Maybe closer than she ever has, a crack in the wall presenting itself. Instead of shying away, of running or giving him the chance to do the same, Carol decides to tear it down instead, once and for all. He said once that they get a chance to start over. Perhaps now is the right time.

 

When she presses her palm against the center of his back, just below his shoulder blades, Daryl flinches. He moves away but an inch, almost as if her fingers were blazing hot. Determined, Carol remains still, pressing her soft palm against the ridges of his spine, fingertips grazing the rise of his left shoulder and the ridges of his scars.

 

She can feel his heartbeat calming down once he relaxes into her touch, almost leaning into it, she notices. Warmth spreads through her in response. Gently, she traces the white, thick lines of his scars, just barely, not moving her palm from its centering position that seems to ground him, connect him to her.

 

In the map of scars she finds history books and torn photographs, flashes of memories of her own life before the world came to an end. It is a mirror, of sorts. Anger flares briefly deep in her stomach, but she is too tired, and this moment too precious to ruin it like that. Nothing can change the past or erase its mementos.

 

But the future lies ahead of them now, promising.

 

Daryl turns his head when her fingers become lazy, just enough so she can see his profile. _Turn around?_ It sounds like a question more than a command, Carol's eyebrows furrowing in confusion.  


_Why?_ Her question is quiet, a whisper that echoes in the small space between them. In return, Daryl blushes, his cheeks tinted with the slightest shade of red. It causes her insides to flutter, and her fingers to tremble against his bared skin.

  
He clears his throat. _Gonna check ya back._

  
He had been furious when she told him what had happened in his absence, cursing under his breath and asking over and over if she was fine. No reassurance seemed to soothe the rage that burned inside of him, and it had taken all her willpower to keep him from searching for Morgan amongst the survivors, and amongst what was left behind from the herd.

 

The chapter is still unfinished, and she can feel that like daggers in her own mind. But today, it will have to rest.

 

_It's fine_ , she promises, knowing he can spot a lie from a mile away. He does, raising his eyebrows and turning to face her fully. Suddenly realizing how close they are, he swallows, the warmth of his breath raising goosebumps on Carol's skin.

 

That proves too much to take in, and Carol swiftly turns around, kicking off her boots and pulling up her legs until she can cross them beneath herself.

 

Nothing happens for a good long while, their breathing a little ragged. Then, with fumbling fingers, Daryl begins to trace along the edge of her shirt, calloused fingertips slipping beneath the fabric to feather against her skin. The shiver is arouses is difficult to hide, and he freezes when he notices.

 

If it took him off guard, he is quick to recover, beginning to nudge the shirt further up her back, until it gets stuck around her ribcage.

 

With a chuckle, and trying hard not to make another comment that would once have slipped from her lips easily, Carol takes matters into her own hand, quickly pulling the shirt over her head.

 

This is not the first time he has seen her like this. Life on the road seldom left room for modesty. Carol does not expect to be bothered. But when he gasps almost inaudibly, she suddenly feels her confidence crumbling away. Before she can speak up, though, she feels his fingertips skimming across her back.

 

Under his featherlight, tender touch, she can _feel_ the bruises. As he traces the ridges of her spine, she can _hear_ it moaning. A sigh escapes her, both from pain and comfort.

 

_Was worried 'bout ya._ Perhaps she has fallen asleep, or perhaps he has. Daryl's voice is heavy with the strain of the past days, hoarse and quiet, and hidden deep down, she can make out the fear he always tries so hard to mask.

 

There are many answers she could give ( _nine lives, remember? i was worried about you, too. i was afraid. i thought i would never see you again_ ). Speaking them is too exhausting, her eyelids already fluttering shut as Daryl continues to trace the sore skin of her back, his thumb edging along her bra, slipping beneath the fabric almost daringly before descending down towards her tailbone.

 

Then, out of nowhere, she feels his lips pressing softly against her shoulder. He lingers, dampening the skin with his breath. Surely, she has fallen asleep now, Carol wonders, turning around to find his eyes looking up at her face.

 

He looks almost more surprised than she must be, curling his hands gently around her upper arms, holding on to her. When she says nothing, he apparently takes it as a good sign, dropping his forehead against the skin where his lips have just left behind a prickling sensation.

 

Her hands lift on their own accord. One finds one of his, covering it, keeping it in place. The other, bold and daring and yet heavy as lead, cranes until it finds his thigh, resting on it innocently. Still, he shudders, moves a bit closer, and the sigh that vibrates against her back is like a lullaby.

 

 

 

 

When she wakes, everything around her is pitch black. But now, there are no snarls filling the darkness. Instead, it is Daryl's even breathing against the back of her neck, and for that brief moment between sleeping and waking, Carol forgets about the horrors that will haunt her again come light of day.


End file.
